Lights
by jenna.masonbrase
Summary: A fic about soccercop soccercopping. If soccercopping means being cute and adorable, and having drug problems, and hiding feelings because you're terrified to have them. Alleviating pain through a person and a high simultaneously. From Beth's perspective.


Authors Note: _This fic is called lights because writing this coincided with the writing of a song called Lights, which you can listen to on my soundcloud page if you like (fanfic net doesn't allow outside links so I can't give you that, but if you look up Jenna Mason-Brase Lights it'll come up)__. __This is my first fanfic thing, so I hope it's not a disaster (but you can tell me if it is, feedback is always a godsend.)_

When did pills become your vices?

She kisses you in your bathroom when the shower steam is rising, hearts racing, lips against your pulse to check it, and you breathe it in. Your eyes close to the outpour of love from her, from her hands that are tugging at your clothes like she's desperate for your skin. She's taking her time across your neck, and you love it. Or you used to. Or you still do, but there's too many distractions for you to focus on her. You're eyes open in the last few seconds of it, not because your high, but because you want to be. Right before her lips find yours again, you drift your glance to stare at the pills hidden behind the mirrored cabinet by the sink. You find some security in knowing she's never gonna look for them there. When did pills become your vices?

...

You watch her cook. You're memorizing her, but she has no idea, as she arranges spices into compositions, begging you to taste it as she holds the ladle out to you.

Instead you lean in to taste her, and she pushes you off teasingly, laughing.

"Babe-"

"I've been working on this sauce for _hours_, Beth, and you're damn well going to try it."

She gives you a look that makes you crumble as you roll your eyes, and fine, you open your mouth when she brings the ladle to your lips. It's damn good. You smile.

"Fucking brilliant, babe."

"I've been fine tuning this recipe for quite some time-"

"Good work, let's make out."

And she barely has time to laugh before your lips are back to hers, your hands racing towards her hips, racing to touch her. Alison leans into you, and just barely runs her tongue across your bottom lip. It's just a whisper, barely there before it's gone, and it drives you mad. She's never been one to come on too strong; you think she likes it when you take control. No, you _know_ she does. She's told you before.

So you drift towards her neck, and she moans the absence of your kiss on hers. But you find her safe spots. You move across her neck, your hands up her back, and you whisper to her, kissing the skin behind her ear. "Where?"

It takes her a second. Then, "Here. Right here."

You don't question it.

You just push yourself off the counter, careful not to land on her tiny feet, and now that you can pull her into you fully you do so. Her chest against yours, your heartbeats collide like a metronome, keeping time to the music you're dancing to. The way her breath catches is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.

And suddenly you're picking her up, twirling her around, and she's smiling into the kiss in ways that make you sure you're gay. You've spent most of your life having sex without intimacy. Pure lust used to have some appeal to you, because something about it felt so out of your control, like you could detach your mind from your heart for a couple minutes. So you'd have sex with Paul and find attraction in his strength, in the way his eyes burned a cold, deep blue as he tried to connect with you. But you never connected to it. Now you're sure you never could.

Alison's eyes are always caring, even when she wants you. Even when she has you, when her hands have done their coaxing and she's got you begging for closure. Even when she's teasing you, she's listening to your signals. When you turned your lips away from Paul, he kissed your neck. If you turned your lips away from Alison, she'd know something was wrong. And that carefulness means so much to you.

You were happy with Paul, sometimes. Happiness and sex were never drawn together though. And it's not that you think all men have to separate love and lust.

But you had to. You had to do it to get by. Taking a couple steps forward, setting her down on the counter-

"You're such a top." she tells you.

And you smile like you mean it, because you do. It's honest. She cradles you in her legs. "You love it." you tell her.

And she does. And you do. The ghosting of her fingertips against your abdomen is too much to bear. You tear off her shirt. She tears off yours.

...

Later you tell her you love her, and she says "Not now."

Because the air changes the moment her husband comes home, and the oxygen she breathes influences her emotions. You're at your apartment. Paul's coming home late. The absence of her has you drinking and mixing your meds, and you need her to say it. You _need_ her to. But she won't.

"Don't call back tonight." she says, as she hangs up and leaves you for her real life.

...

"What's going on with you?" Paul says it as he stands in the doorway, a towel hanging around him. "We haven't been together in months."

"We're together right now, Paul."

"You know that's not what I mean."

He tries to reach out to you. You pull away. "Is it work?" he asks.

"Not this time."

"Are you sure-"

"I'm fucking sure Paul, can you please, just…"

But you're not sure. "Can you just, give me a little space?"

"Fine." He nods in concession, and he walks back into the bathroom. You're close to crying. Paul used to be your confidant, because he understood you. You've seen bodies. You've seen crime and corruption, and the terrible things people do to each other, and he's seen it to. He understood that part of you, but now you understood more about yourself than he could ever imagine.

...

Another late night, and you're so high that you can't tell when she walks through the door. You never heard the click of the lock or the twist of the handle, but you hear her call out to you. You don't know why she's there, but she calls your name, and her voice sounds terrified. She says it again, almost screams it, and you can't take much more. "Here, I'm here. In here, Ali."

And she takes steps to find you, but you can't remember what she does when she gets there. You wake up from it all around four, and you can't tell whether it was a dream or not.

...

The idea of taking and abusing narcotics only became accessible to you because of a suggestion. Someone told you to lighten up once, to close yourself off from the bodies and the yellow tape that came with being a cop. Out for beer, you couldn't keep your mind off it. A man. Twenty Seven. His three children murdered, his wife burned into an entirely new person.

But the table was laughing at something stupid and you weren't. He nudged you in your side with his elbow. Told you to lighten up.

You didn't decide then to take the pills. You only decided to try.

...

Paul watches your habit like he watches you sleep. He doesn't. He turns to his side. But he knows you're there, he can hear your slow and steady breaths. And he knows.

Alison has her own drugs. She wears alcohol like lipstick, always on her lips. And you don't tell her to stop, because you don't know if she needs it to be with you or not. That lasts for a couple months. Then you fall in love with her. And then you can't help yourself.

"Ali-"

"Don't."

She hears it in your tone. You haven't said anything yet, but she knows you want to talk about it. She sees it in the way you're looking at her.

"I can handle myself." She tells you. She's tipsy. And she wants to sleep with you. Or she wanted to.

A second ago, she'd made a comment about the wine. She needed more of it. And you couldn't help yourself. Now you sit up enough to look at her directly. "Do you have to get drunk to sleep with me, Ali?"

Her eyes shoot you down, her head lifting from your shoulder. "I'm kidding." You try to save yourself.

"No. You're not."

Her warmth slips away from you and you sigh. "Come on love-"

"You talk to me like I'm some kind of alcoholic-"

"I was kidding-"

"This isn't the first time." She stands up.

"Ali, I'm sorry."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not-"

"You are!" You lean forward, but she takes another step back.

"These little comments are adding up and I just, what do you want me to do, I can't just…" Her hand finds it's place against her neck. "I mean, do you really think that?"

You take too long to answer. You know that. Alison pauses, then takes a couple forceful steps towards you and grabs your hand.

She tugs at it, pulling you up, and soon she has you in the hallway, standing behind her. She turns around, and you don't know what's coming. She's facing you. There's an agony in the silence, it's hands around your throat. Then she unbuttons her shirt and takes it off.

Never leaving your eyes she reaches her hands around to unclasp her bra, and it falls to the floor. Your heart stops.

You don't say anything. You don't move. You don't remember how to.

Alison takes a step towards you, then another. Then another, and she's at the hem of your shirt. She's asking you.

But she doesn't have to, and you both know that.

Your shirt's on the floor in seconds, her lips crashing into yours like a fatal collision. You're craving her so badly, and you know who she wants you to be, so you push her backwards and up against the wall. You take control. Your hands climb up her chest as she grips the belt loops of your jeans.

Everything feels desperate. You don't want to lose her. You _can't_ lose her. Every time she turns her back to you your afraid you'll lose your life. So when she pulled away from you earlier, you were terrified. But she stayed. You have to do everything you can to make sure she stays.

Her teeth pull at your bottom lip as her hands leave your belt loops to trace the outline of your spine. Her fingertips dip into the back of your jeans, and she moans softly. But when you move to kiss her neck her hands sprint up your body fast, to your face, to pull you back. You're surprised. She holds you in front of her so she can look at you when she speaks.

You both try to catch your breath, then she looks at you. She _really_ looks at you.

"I never have to get drunk to be with you." she says. You see her. You see her adorable bangs and the sincerity held in her eyes. You can't believe how strongly it shows.

"_Never._" she says. "Okay? _Never._"

You nod, but you don't understand it. "Okay."

You don't understand how she can love you when you're this broken. You're not high, but you want to be. Everything Alison is in front of you, and still, there's an undertone to her movements. _You miss the pills._

And that's when you start crying. Because you love her, but you're not addicted to her. Not like narcotics. And when it battles love, addiction always wins.

"Sweetheart." She lifts your chin up to make sure you're ok. You're not. The tears are spilling over.

Her lips try to mend you first, softly pressed against yours. But you go from tearing up to sobbing at the touch, and her arms wrap around you in an instant. She's so warm. Her hands perform miracles against your skin.

And she takes control effortlessly, leading you up to her room and into her bed. She's confused, trying to piece you together without knowing what broke the pieces. But she doesn't pry, not now. She just makes sure you're settled before she crawls onto Donnie's side of the bed so she can hold you while you try to breathe.

...

Her kiss meets yours again, and you pull your eyes away from the mirror. Back to her. You try to get back to her.

"Something's wrong." she says into your lips, barely breaking apart from them. She kisses you again. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

And at that she really pulls away, but she doesn't look angry. Just concerned. "Beth."

"I'm fine."

"_Beth_."

You sigh. Maybe you should tell her. She needs to know. She can help you.

"It's just work stress."

"I know work stress." Alison says. "I see it in you all the time. This isn't that."

"It's complicated, Ali."

"Try me."

She's stepped away from you now. You knew she was coming tonight, but you also knew you couldn't wait that long to take pills. You'd gone to the station that morning, and though you don't always follow it, you've tried to make it a rule not to go into work high. It's a rule you break all the time. Constantly.

Today you didn't though, and when you got home, you remembered. Ali's coming. She wants to make dinner for you. She wants to have sex with you. She misses the way you whisper dirty words in her ear as she cooks, playful and suggestive and lovely and passionate. All you have now is desperation.

You couldn't wait 'til after she left, so you take a couple. Then a couple more. Then you blink, and she's in front of you, trying to take your clothes off.

"Ali…" You can't. Can't say it. Tell her later, not now.

"I just want to do this."

Her eyes question you. "I just want you. Here. I know you have problems at home, a-and I have mine, here, but I-I don't want to be our problems right now." You try to reach her with your voice, but your not sure if it carries. You're not sure how to think. Too high. Too gone. "I just want to touch you."

She looks at you like it's a crime to let this go. If she's a criminal, you just want to be a crime committed.

Her hands are shaking. Or maybe those are yours. Her words are barely a whisper. "So do it."

...

You're falling apart.

Ali isn't talking to you, you've been too distant with her. Every time she needs you, you ignore the calls or you act too out of your mind to be anything but pathetic. When she starts crying, she wakes you up. You were with her, leaning against the wall of her craft room, and she was saying something. You don't remember. You didn't respond. That's when you hear her sob.

And when you reach out to her, she has to pull all her strength together just to kick you out.

"Go!"

"Baby-"

"JUST FUCKING GO, BETH."

You don't remember how you got home. But you did. Paul's not there. Maybe he left you too.

...

Midnight meets you with three empty bottles and mood stabilizers. It's been a couple days. Ali won't answer when you call, and you give up easily. You stop calling her. You can't do this, when Paul only wants you for sex and Ali's losing her stability. She's drinking. She's drinking all the fucking time. Cosima told you about the empty bottles next to her bed, in her craft room. In her car.

It's when you're coming down from that high that you first consider suicide. _Really_ consider it. Anything to save her. Anything to stop the drinking, the heart ache, anything to just. Fucking. Stop.

...

It's all you think about for weeks. And then it's time.

You have a plan, but it's a couple hours to go, and there's too many questions. Should you tell her? Leave her a note? Leave _him_ a note? You've been together for two years. Or together for one, and distant for the other. You feel like you owe him _something_, at least.

But you owe her everything. You never really decide to go see her. You just decide to get in your car. And then you decide to drive.

When you're in front of her house, you take your phone off the passenger seat and hold it in your right hand. She hasn't called you in weeks. You almost call her, but something tells you not to. So you lean your forehead against the phone like it's her. Like just a call could save you. If it ever comes.

It won't.

You're not sure how long you stay in your car. At some point, you close your eyes. When you're high like this, a thousand thoughts muddle into one, and thinking is impossible. Take a breath. Stop the army of memories from attacking your broken mind. Grip the phone tighter. Eyes closed.

Open them, and it's dark outside. And, you're sober. Alarming sober. More sober than you've been in months.

Stop. What the fuck is happening? Pounding in your head, body drenched from sweat, heart exhausted from a year of beating out of time. You're out of your mind. You ache, there's so much pain, and you realize you've been numb for so long now. You'd forgotten what it feels like. Now you know. You look at the time on your dash. It's three. You didn't plan to be alive at three. You'd only taken enough drugs to keep you 'til midnight.

And then you're calling her. And then you're losing it. It goes to voicemail. You try again. You're not giving in. You need her voice. You need it more than narcotics. You need her, and she needs you, and addiction won't win this fight. Not tonight. Not when she's picking up, and you're sobbing, and all she does is ask you where.

It barely carries through the phone to reach you. You keep apologizing. You need her so badly, you need her words and her lips and her future. You want to see who she is, who she wants to be, who she'll become. You don't want to die.

"Where?" she asks you again. She sounds broken, but still, she sounds like safety.

"Here." The words almost catch in your throat. You try to breathe. You don't give in. "I'm outside, I'm here."

And for the first time, she meets you outside,when her husband is in their bedroom and her kids are down the hall. She leaves her life for you. Or maybe she's finds her life in you. Or maybe your about to find the rest of your life in her.


End file.
